


Priceless To Two

by cowpoke69



Series: Worthless To One, Priceless To Two [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Consensual Sex, Idiots in Love, M/M, POV Edward Nygma, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-25 23:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18712333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowpoke69/pseuds/cowpoke69
Summary: Basically what should have happened after their last scene in 5x12.





	Priceless To Two

**Author's Note:**

> Quick heads-up: I recommend you to read [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18523468) first since I kind of changed the canon from the hug scene in 5x11 a little bit. If you don't want to read: basically instead of hugging they kiss.

_He's fierce in my dreams, seizing my guts  
He floats me with dread, soaked in soul_

 

 

 

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

Oswald turns around first, and Edward puts his glasses back on, gaze lingering on the masked vigilante one last time before following him. Tomorrow. A simple word. A promise, just like the one they made each other ten years ago in that library. Six months before they had been separated by the law. Or rather by Jim Gordon.

“What are we going to do?” Edward asks, voicing his concerns out loud as they both reach the end of a street.

Oswald stops, and Edward wishes he would have stayed silent. Voicing his thoughts out loud is one of his worst habits, which has only been increased after spending ten years in Arkham. He did not have much company there; which justifies that practice. Oswald seems to be considering the question, and Edward focuses on his eyes. The icy-green one, and then, the blue one behind the monocle. The one he lost while protecting him.

And once again, his mind recalls that day. Ten years spent alone in an asylum have done nothing to that memory. It has instead only increased his fondness towards Oswald. Edward’s tongue darts out of his mouth, wetting his lips; a nervous twitch. And Oswald’s eyes follow it, half of his mind still trying to come up with a plan, the other distracted by the same memory Edward is playing over and over in his mind.

It had been soft, and comforting, and everything he had ever imagined it would be. But it had been just a kiss, really, nothing more. Oswald had stopped Edward before things could go any further, reminding him with a tone heavy with pain and bitterness that his eye was starting to hurt again. They had found medical supplies, Oswald quickly got better with the proper care and things had gone back to what they were supposed to be.

They had spent nights and days making plans, pulling off the most insane heists, wreaking havoc on the city like it was theirs. Six months. High on adrenaline, high on each other. But they had not kissed, not touched, not even mentioned it, and Edward had spent the next ten years hating himself for that. He had lost the opportunity to turn that kiss into something else, something more. He had mourned that loss, and he had never fully learned to live with it.

No letters were allowed; Jim made sure of this. And Edward had spent ten years talking to himself and to whoever would hear him. One person in particular had actually listened. Not his psychiatrist, not the other inmates. Jeremiah Valeska had listened. He had seen. He had felt. How lonely Edward became. How heartbroken he was. Away from the man he loved so much that the idea of never seeing him again drove him mad.

And nothing has changed. He still misses him. Terribly. Oswald is standing right in front of him, and if he wanted to speak up, he could. If he wanted to touch him, he would. If he wanted to kiss him, he should. But the mere idea that Oswald could reject him is stronger than his will. So instead, he just listens as Oswald answers his question.

“I’m still the owner of my father’s mansion. I’ve made sure of that. This is where I will be going next.” 

Oswald tilts his head up, and Edward tries to maintain a neutral expression upon hearing his following proposition.

“I believe you could still go back to that library. Or maybe—maybe you could come with me? You once owned a room in that mansion. It is still yours.”

It takes Edward a few seconds to register the offer. Oswald looks at him, nervously, wondering why it is taking Edward so long to give him an answer. They have proven each other that they work best together, that they need each other, that they cherish each other and above all that they can trust each other. Oswald’s right hand reaches up to rest on Edward’s forearm; a reassuring gesture. The night is warm and he is wearing several layers of clothing, but Edward shivers; still.

“I can’t go there with you.”

Oswald’s grip on his forearm grows weaker, his expression turns cold.

“Why not?”

“Jim Gordon knows that you’re the only friend I have left in this city. This is where he’ll go looking for me first. I’m an Arkham escapee after all. Not a free man. Unlike you.”

Oswald abruptly stops touching him, and Edward wants to grab his wrist mid-air to pull him into his arms, but he does no such thing. They are in a random street, in the middle of the city, and half of the GCPD is probably already looking for him. There is a lump forming in his throat, and he fights against it as best as he can. There is no room for an emotional breakdown. Not here, not now.

“I’ll go to the library. See if it’s still abandoned. It’s probably the best option for now.”

Edward readjusts his glasses in an attempt to hide his nervousness. Oswald seems to be battling his own thoughts, and Edward ignores it because he knows what comes next. Fifteen years. He has known him for fifteen years and if there is something he has learned about Oswald it is how to read his facial expressions. Right now, he is torn between denial and pure incomprehension.

“Oswald,” Edward does not give him the chance to throw a tantrum, “I’ll do fine by myself. We can meet tomorrow, when things get calmer.”

A few blocks ahead of them, a police car siren goes off. Oswald shots him a panicked look and Edward starts walking backwards, ready to start running if the car comes down that street. Oswald stays silent, only mouthing what he wishes he could say with actual words or even with a hug. But time is running out, and with each step he takes, Edward creates a distance between the two of them. 

“Be careful.” Oswald’s words fall into a void. Edward is already gone.

 

 

 

Nothing in that library has changed. Especially not in the room where they shared their first and last kiss. The shelves are all covered in dust and the floor in various layers of dirt, but nothing Edward cannot clean. The mirror is still in the exact same spot they left it in, right next to the leather armchairs. Edward takes his hat and his glasses off. He makes a quick mental note to change his prescription as soon as possible. Jeremiah’s accomplice did not guess properly.

Looking at his reflection is tempting, but it would be the worst idea to do that now, so he opts for one of the armchairs. Oswald’s favorite spot during the six months they spent together. Edward closes his eyes, killing a sob in the back of his throat, before it even gets a chance to be free. There is no need to cry. No need to mourn what could have been. He already did that. For ten years. And he is tired. So tired that he falls asleep on that armchair, accepting Morpheus’s loveless embrace.

He wakes up drenched in sweat, realizing that he is still wearing his coat over his suit jacket and his waistcoat. A quick look at his watch indicates that the night is still young and he should probably get into an actual bed. The old mattress he used as a temporary bed in one of the private study rooms of the library will do. The rest of his night is spent drifting between sleep and thinking about what he should do tomorrow. What they should do.

Morning comes, bringing no relief and no answers to his questions and turmoil. There is one thing he knows for sure. He misses Oswald. Terribly. And his reaction when his cellphone starts ringing and an unknown number appears on the screen speaks volumes about the state of his nerves. Edward almost jumps out of bed, a headache slowly taking the space previously occupied by his thoughts. 

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Ed. Did you sleep well? I assume you didn’t meet any problems getting the library back.”

“Oswald,” Edward whispers, aware of the fact that his tone sounds exactly like it did when he saw him in the limo the previous night.

“I figured I shouldn’t wait for you to contact me. After all, I’m always the one running after you,” a light chuckle comes out of Oswald’s lips, and Edward wishes he could see him instead of letting his mind portray the way his lips are probably stretched out into a smile.

“I— How did you get this number?”

“I’m doing fine, thanks,” Oswald pretends to be offended, but the game only lasts for a few seconds.

“I’m sorry. I had an awful night. How are—” Oswald does not give Edward the opportunity to finish his sentence.

“How about we meet in person? At one of Maroni’s old establishments. Maybe then you will get to see how I’ve been doing.”

This time Oswald gives Edward a chance to answer, but what should be a simple ‘yes’ turns into a blabbering mess.

“Yes, I—Do you think—I mean, Jim Gordon is still looking for us. Is it safe?”

“Since when are you so scared of Jim Gordon?”

Oswald’s answer takes a jab at Edward’s pride, and he recovers quickly from his initial confusion.

“I’m not scared. I just have the strong desire to never see the gates of Arkham again. I suppose you understand me?”

“I do.” 

Silence. So short that Edward is not sure it has even existed when Oswald speaks again.

“I promise you that I will have people on the lookout. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

A promise. Again. Edward disentangles himself from the covers and walks towards one of the tall windows; taking in the view, enjoying the whole situation a little too much. Gotham City, always dim and sad looking; his home. And Oswald Cobblepot, on the other end of the line, promising him that he will never let anyone hurt him. Edward smiles; content. The day is already delightful. 

“What time?”

Oswald’s satisfied hum turns Edward’s shy smile into a full beam.

“I’ll send someone to pick you up around 8pm. Is that okay?”

Edward nibbles on the ring finger of his left hand, distracted by a few scandalous thoughts. And he wonders if tonight, he will be bold enough to reiterate the memory that has been on his mind for the past ten years.

“It’s perfect, Oswald.”

 

 

 

Edward adjusts his suit jacket, lookin at his reflection in the mirror, wondering how long it will take for his other self to emerge from the shadows. The heavy medication he has been taking in Arkham has helped, but he knows exactly how these work. They only tame it down, drowning out the other for a few days at a time, mere hours sometimes. Showing up to a pharmacy to ask for a refill would be nonsensical and he does not have enough ammunition at his disposal to do it the violent way.

So instead, he just holds on to the hope that going out with Oswald will help with the withdrawal. And if it does not, it will be easier to deal with him than with his own self. The real Oswald has always been sweeter than the one from his hallucinations anyway. The shiny fabric of his green suit reflects the light of the candles beautifully, and he wonders if it is not too much, too soon. The voice in his head snaps at this thought. Sneering at him from a dark corner.

_Too soon? You have to be kidding me?_

And so it begins. The incessant interventions of his all too opinionated consciousness. The same voice that had him desperately kissing Oswald a decade ago. Edward shakes his head a little too hard, the motion allowing a few strands of hair to fall from behind his ears. He does not want to wear a hat tonight so he just adjusts his glasses on the tip of his nose and grabs his olive green fur coat in one swift motion from where it has been staying on one of the armchairs.

The car is already here when he exits the library. Matte black, ridiculously luxurious. The driver silently salutes him before opening the back door. The whole ride is silent and Edward internally thanks the driver for allowing him to think about what is to come without any intervention. But when the car comes to a stop in front of the restaurant, Edward still has no idea what to expect. There is only one thing he knows as he enters the establishment; if it is a formal meeting, he is way too overdressed.

 

 

 

Most of his concerns dissolve when he sees him. Oswald is sitting at a table in one of the more private corners of the room, his face half-lit by the yellowish light of the candles, talking to one of the waitresses in a whisper. The ginger girl nods before going to Edward. She politely salutes him before taking his coat and invites him to take a seat opposite Oswald. The latter catches his lower lip between his teeth when he sees him, eyes looking his outfit up and down before letting out a chuckle.

“You look even better today.”

Edward tries to repress the blush that seems to be taking over his entire face; in vain. Oswald is wearing a dark purple velvet suit. He looks so regal that Edward wants to reach out to feel the texture of the fabric under the tip of his fingers. Instead he just smiles, feeling shy and tiny, happiness overflowing his chest. 

“You look good as well.”

Oswald takes the compliment much better than him. He just smiles back at Edward and proceeds to snap his fingers at one of the waiters.

“I believe you still owe me a bottle of wine. I’ll let you do the honors. You chose. I pay. I think it’s only fair.”

Edward spends twenty minutes picking the perfect bottle of wine from the menu. The waiter answers most of his questions, but Edward is so insistent that sometimes it takes the poor man several seconds to come up with a satisfactory reply. At last, Edward selects a 1929 Château Latour. When his attention finally shifts to Oswald, he realizes that he has been paying great attention to the exchange. Not an ounce of disinterest colors his features, but instead he is met with a soft fascination, which lingers on his tone as he addresses him.

“Your mind will never cease to amaze me.”

Edward feels himself blushing even more than before, if that were even possible.

“Did you bring me here to compliment me?”

“Would that be a problem?”

“Why here?”

“Why not?”

“This was one of Maroni’s restaurants. I thought you despised him.”

“Well, I’ll have you know that I worked here, a long time ago,” Oswald gestures towards one of the young boys dressed in all white, Edward follows the gesture, “I used to be a dishwasher under Maroni’s management.”

Edward looks back at Oswald. A smile blossoming on his lips. He truly knows his intentions like the back of his hand.

“It must be extremely satisfying for you to come back here now, then. You’ve changed so much.”

“Is that so?”

“Believe me,” Edward waits for the waiter to fill in their wine glasses before resuming his sentence, “you’ve had a very interesting evolution. And I’ve had my fair share of transformations, trust me.”

“Oh, I trust you,” the fondness in Oswald’s tone melts away all of the remaining concerns Edward had. 

When he looks up from his glass of Bordeaux, Edward is convinced that Oswald is looking back at him with this much affection on purpose, just for the sake of playing with him. But even though his eyes are now so different from one another, they carry the same honest emotion. One that makes Edward cast his eyes downwards and his whole body shiver. Oswald’s delicate fingers play along the rim of his own wine glass, distracting Edward from thinking coherently. When he finds the strength to look up without making himself look like a mess, the ginger waitress approaches them with the menu.

The moment dies as quickly as it started, and they spend the rest of the evening discussing the last ten years. They talk about their respective experiences in between delicious appetizers and a myriad of tasty dishes. The wine is divine and Edward can feel his tongue loosening up with each sip he takes. Oswald shares stories about Blackgate. He explains with a fascinating detachment how he became the king of the prison almost a year after his arrival. Edward does not even pretend to be surprised. Oswald has always proven to be able to adapt to any given situation.

He cannot say the same about Arkham, however. But instead of talking about the lonely nights and the uselessness of shock therapy, he mentions Jeremiah Valeska and the other inmates. Edward avoids talking about himself, because doing so would mean acknowledging the fact that he has not been his true self – not entirely – without Oswald by his side. It would also mean mentioning the heavy medication, the pain, the fear. Some of these scars are too fresh, too recent to be reopened.

“Well, I suppose it is time for us to grab a quick dessert and get going,” Oswald declares. 

_Us. Did you catch that? How lovely._

Edward takes a quick look at the candles. Most of the wax has melted onto the tablecloth. When he looks at his watch, he tries to maintain his composure as best as he can afford to. They have been here for more than three hours, but it is not enough to catch up on what he has missed most. Oswald is looking at him with an amused expression. Edward realizes that he has been looking at his watch for an extended amount of time, without producing a sound.

“Do you have something else to do?”

Edward snaps back to the present, eyes lingering on Oswald’s dark hair and the way the faint yellowish light reflects on it. It has always looked so soft, so shiny. He recalls that one time he had grabbed it, in a fit of anger, right after Oswald had refused to call him The Riddler. And then, his mind gets mischievous, and he wonders what it would look like against white sheets. A stunning contrast. The alluring thought sends a shiver down his spine.

“Ed?” Oswald grows slightly concerned. Edward finally looks at his soft features.

“I was wondering—would you like to come over to the library? I have something to ask you and,” Edward looks at a passing waitress, “I believe it needs a more private setting.”

Oswald snaps his fingers at one of the waiters, gaze still fixed onto Edward. 

“I am afraid we are leaving before dessert. Everything is on me.”

 

 

 

As soon as they walk outside of the restaurant, rain starts pouring down on the city. Edward groans, internally cursing himself for not wearing a hat. Oswald passes him his umbrella which previously served as a support for his injured leg. Edward accepts it, but not without a comment.

“You didn’t bring your cane. Why?”

Oswald frowns, looking left and right for any sign of his chauffeur. 

“I have been doing very well without a cane for the past ten years.”

“What?” Edward is too preoccupied by that information to even bother opening the umbrella, “they didn’t give you one in prison?”

“They did. During the first couple of months or so. They took it back, however, after I attacked another inmate with it. In pure self-defense, of course.”

“Did he survive?” Edward asks, genuinely waiting for an answer.

Oswald looks up, a thin smile stretching his lips, his right hand reaching out to brush a soaked strand of now curly hair off of Edward’s forehead. The moment lasts a few seconds, but Edward knows that no matter how old he grows and how forgetful his memory gets; he will cherish it until the day he dies. He lets out a nervous scoff, mostly directed at the naïve nature of his thoughts, but Oswald takes it as a cue to actually give him a reply.

“Yes, unfortunately. But someone else finished the job a few months later. He had it coming.”

Oswald’s hand lets go of the strand of hair and Edward slightly leans forward in an attempt to chase the warmth of his fingers. Oswald does not seem to notice, which leads Edward to thank whoever is watching from above. The alcohol is still coursing through his veins. He can feel his own heart beating inside of his eardrums, off-tempo with the sound of the rain hitting the pavement.

Oswald starts growing impatient; barking orders at his bodyguards every ten seconds. The car arrives five minutes later. Five minutes during which Edward had the time to play several different scenarios in his head. All of which involve him letting go of his inhibitions in order to get what he desires. Tonight is the night, he can feel it in his core, but that intuition alone scares him instead of emboldening him. He cannot allow himself to risk everything based exclusively on instinct.

Oswald gets into the car first and Edward follows him closely. He does not have the time to register what is happening but when he looks up, it is to find Oswald holding out the barrel of his Glock against the nape of the driver’s neck. Edward has half a mind of reaching out to lower Oswald’s hand, but the anger on his features dissuades him to do so. So he just leans against the car seat, observing the interaction with an unabashed interest.

“What did I tell you about being late?”

“You said I would get shot if I were, Mr. Cobblepot.”

“And why did I specifically ask you not to be late tonight?”

“Mr. Nygma is a wanted man. I suppose you don’t want him to stay in the open for too long.”

Oswald’s tone gets higher than Edward has ever witnessed, “You suppose? You suppose? What the hell am I still doing employing morons like you?”

Oswald does not waste any more time screaming at his underqualified employee. He cocks the hammer of the gun in one swift motion. Edward covers his hand with his, so fast that Oswald almost fires the shot. They exchange a look, and Edward manages to lower Oswald’s arm until it is safe enough for the driver to move again. Edward exhales, still breathless from the interaction he has just witnessed.

“Oswald.”

“What?” Oswald snaps, tone so dry that Edward slightly recoils. 

His hand is still covering Oswald’s but he ignores it as best as he can. He quickly gives the address of the library to the driver, who is so thankful for his intervention that he drives them there as fast as possible. The rest of the ride is eerily calm. Oswald looks out the window and whispers under his breath. Edward lets go of his hand to take care of the gun, which he carefully puts inside one of his coat’s pockets. He could try and talk to him, but doing so in front of an employee would be reckless.

He mirrors what Oswald is already doing and leans against the window on his side of the car, breathing out warm puffs of air against the cold glass. And when he closes his eyes, his mind starts buzzing in a cacophony of thoughts. Oswald wants him to be safe. He almost blew a man’s brains out because he made them wait out in the open. And this information is all too much for Edward. He suddenly feels sick. Not knowing how to act and how to feel drives him mad. Drinking two glasses full of red wine has not helped either. 

_Act on it when you’re less drunk._

 

 

 

When they arrive at the library, the moon is high in the sky, casting its pale light on the facade of the imposing building. Oswald walks ahead of Edward, acting like nothing has changed since the last time he set foot inside of that place. Edward still holds on to the umbrella, breathing in and out slowly in order to stay alert. The wine does not seem to have the same effect on Oswald, and he wonders if he had the chance to open up a few bottles while he was incarcerated. Edward did not have that opportunity and that probably explains why he feels so tipsy right now.

Everything goes a little less slow when Oswald pushes past the door leading to the room where it all happened. His own speech, their pact, their kiss. It all comes back to hit him in waves of souvenirs and overwhelming emotions and he can already feel himself getting anxious. Edward props Oswald’s umbrella against a wall before taking his coat off. The air feels stuffier than before, or maybe it is due to the fact that he has been profusely sweating from the moment Oswald decided to sit on his favorite armchair.

Edward hangs his coat on one of the sides of the mirror before taking a good look at his reflection. Now that Oswald is nearby, it does not scare him as much as before. His hair – which he has previously spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to tame – is now curly because of the rain. His cheeks are flushed pink, probably because of the alcohol, certainly because of how he is feeling. Oswald looks at him, which does nothing to help with the blushing. Edward turns towards him, nervous and apprehensive. He almost jumps out in surprise when Oswald speaks, the melody of his voice breaking the silence.

“Why did you stop me from killing him?”

Edward did not expect him to mention that, not with the way he has been avoiding talking to him during the whole ride home. But this is a question he will gladly answer, so when he approaches Oswald, he tries to speak as distinctly as he can. It is in vain, since Oswald cannot help but to notice the way he is slurring. A chuckle escapes his lips but he allows Edward to teach him a lesson.

“I—I did it because—”, Edward stops, only to be encouraged to talk further by Oswald.

“I’m listening.”

Edward inhales, deeply, grounding himself to reason rather than the flow of emotions slowly taking over his entire body.

“Fear does not beget loyalty. Fear is just—fear. You need them to respect you, Oswald.”

Oswald’s fingers play along the edges of the armchair and Edward would be damned if he did not wish they would be touching something else instead. His mind races and he focuses on the pensive hum coming from Oswald’s throat. He needs to sober up. Now. Oswald offers him a faint smile, apparently agreeing with Edward’s piece of advice. However, he does not respond immediately. 

Oswald stands up, leaving the comfort of his seat, eyes browsing over the books stacked onto the shelves. Edward lights up a few candles in the meantime, clumsily, almost burning the tip of his fingers every time he tries to strike a match against the side of the box. And when Oswald is done touring the room, he chooses to stand next to him. Edward watches the reflection of the flames dancing on his monocle, his breath desperately catching up in his lungs when Oswald smiles at him, again. A smile so warm that Edward is convinced it could light up the entire sky.

“I would be lost without you,” Oswald says, half-whisper, half-confession.

He stands so close now that Edward takes a step back, letting out a gasp when the lower part of his back hits the frame of the window. Oswald shots him a concerned look, unaware of the fact that Edward is engaged in a battle inside of his own mind. A multitude of thoughts paralyze him for a few seconds, and he is only able to move when Oswald turns his back on him, gesturing towards the foyer.

_You’re a mess._

“Would you mind turning on the fire? I’m freezing.”

“Y—yes. Sure,” Edward stutters, losing his common sense with every passing second.

He walks past Oswald and proceeds to light a fire, appreciating the heat coming from the dancing flames. His hair dries in a matter of minutes, and Oswald joins him, standing extremely close to him once again. Edward grows restless, fingers nervously playing with the buttons of his suit jacket. And he genuinely wonders where yesterday’s clingy Edward went. The one who was devouring Oswald with his eyes in that limo, the one who grabbed onto him every time he had the occasion to do so. He dreads his loss, having been left with his nervous and jittery shadow to deal with.

“Why did you ask me to come here, Edward?” Oswald breaks the silence, once again, and Edward wishes he could come up with a lie.

They stand next to each other, facing the fire, mere inches separating them. Edward tries to unbutton his jacket, in vain. His senses have gone numb, his mind a cloudy chaos. And Oswald, no matter how hard he wants to hear him say it, understands that Edward might not be able to give him an answer. Not now, not tonight. Tomorrow, maybe, if the night is sweet and the morning after clement. Edward’s left hand finds its way to the nape of his own neck, fingers nervously playing with a few strands of hair.

_Tell him._

His hands go back to the buttons of his jacket. He needs to get out of it before the heat of his embarrassment consumes him. A potential answer dangles over the edge of his lips for a moment, only to be swallowed down his throat when Oswald covers his hands with his. The faint light of the fireplace casts its orange hue on his pale skin, covering only half of his face, but Edward sees it in his eyes as clear as day. And when Oswald speaks again, a soft smile stretching his lips, Edward does not mind losing control of his self, not when his senses are already drowned by pure greed.

“Let me take care of this.”

Edward silently agrees, hands leaving the buttons of his jacket to let them be replaced by Oswald’s delicate fingers. And when he gets gently pushed against a bookshelf, he meets Oswald’s lust filled expression with a timid smile. Edward watches as Oswald works on the buttons of his gold embroidered waistcoat, breath hitching in his throat the lower his hands get. Chest heaving up and down a little too fast, a little too erratic.

Oswald takes notice, his fingers lingering on Edward’s lower stomach, enjoying the half-sob that it draws from him. And Edward closes his eyes, cursing himself for being such a sensitive mess. Oswald slowly helps him out of his jacket, his waistcoat follows quickly after, leaving him in his white dress shirt. When Oswald stops touching him, Edward opens his eyes, a silent plea coloring his expression. His hand reaches up to grab onto the collar of Oswald’s velvet jacket, the soft fabric almost melting into the tip of his fingers.

“Why did you ask me to come here, Ed?” 

The same question, for the very same answer. Edward does not think; he does not try to. He lowers himself to sit on the edge of a shelf, meeting Oswald eye-to-eye. And he is entirely conscious of how desperate he sounds when he speaks. But he does not mind it, not one bit, especially when he sees how Oswald seems to be enjoying the way he is already begging him. Needy, touch-starved Ed Nygma, asking for a favor. What a pretty sight. 

“Kiss me.”

Edward almost laughs at how liberating it feels, an emotion replaced by full bliss when Oswald’s lips brush against his. Skin against skin, his breath tickling his upper lip, the palm of his hands pressed flat against Edward’s chest in an attempt to restrain himself. Edward waits for him to act on his desires because doing so himself would be foolish. Oswald kisses the edge of his mouth, venerating him already, each peck a proof of his devotion.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not,” Edward sounds offended, “I’m not drunk. I’m tipsy. I’m perfectly aware of what we’re—doing.”

Oswald laughs, catching Edward’s lower lip between his teeth before releasing it. And Edward truly wishes he could control the throaty moan that leaves his lips.

“And what exactly are we doing?”

“I—we’re,” Edward tries to sound coherent, but he loses that battle when Oswald finally gives him what he has been craving for a decade.

The kiss is soft, initially, but need and lust turn their embrace into something less chaste, more true to their own selves. When Edward slightly opens his mouth, Oswald bites his tongue. When Oswald moans into the kiss, Edward might as well die right this instant. For he knows he would die satisfied in his lover’s arms. And when Edward breaks the kiss, gasping for air, clutching onto Oswald’s jacket as if his life depends on it, the truth dawns on him. Painfully exquisite.

“I need you.”

 

 

 

Need. Edward wonders if this is what has led them to create such a beautiful tableau. Or if something else lies beneath the surface, waiting for the both of them to come down from whatever they are experiencing to expose itself. His mind stops racing when Oswald settles between his almost bare thighs, tongue sweeping over his hip bone. His hands rest against the crown of Oswald’s head, lazily grabbing a few strands of dark hair. It is as soft as he had imagined. However, Oswald does not give him the time nor the opportunity to analyze the nature of his hair. His mouth dangerously hovers over his erection, still covered by the pine green fabric of his boxers. 

“I see you are fully committed to the leprechaun aesthetic,” he comments, in an effort to appease Edward.

“You’re the one to talk. Even your socks are covered in hand-stitched umbrellas, Oswald.”

Oswald presses the tip of his nose against Edward’s erection, devilishly smiling when Edward lets out a sinful sound. 

“Not fair.”

“Nothing’s fair,” Oswald retorts.

Edward fully understands the meaning behind those words when Oswald hooks a finger under the waistband of his boxers. His hands immediately cover his face, apprehension slowly creeping up on him. Oswald tries to soothe him, murmuring sweet words against the skin of his lower stomach, aware of the fact that this is a first for the both of them. Edward tries to understand the meaning of those words, in vain. When Oswald’s mouth is finally on him; nothing is fair indeed.

The feeling is unlike anything he has ever felt before. Better than what he had imagined, slower than what he had hoped for. Oswald tries to still Edward’s hips with one hand, the other ravishing him in rhythm with his mouth. Edward bites onto his left forearm, eyes flickering open to look at Oswald. If hell exists; he will gladly serve his penance. Oswald looks up, tongue licking his sensitive skin in an upward motion, releasing him with a smile.

“You taste good,” Oswald murmurs, using his thumb to wipe the saliva off his lower lip, and Edward has never felt so alive and so inclined to die at the same time.

He is still trying to come down from the high caused by what has just happened when Oswald’s lips reach his collarbones. Edward releases the grasp on his forearm, immediately frowning at the mark his teeth have left there. But leaving his mouth unoccupied would have probably led him to say the most inappropriate things. Oswald plants kisses so soft on his skin that his attention goes back to him in a matter of seconds. Once Oswald is fully covering his naked body with his, Edward grabs his face with both hands, lips eagerly pressing against his mouth.

He breaks the feverish kiss to speak, voice still strained from all those repressed moans, “Your turn now.”

Oswald chases his lips, unable to give him a vocal response. A parched man trying to make up for the lost time. And Edward wants to reassure him. Promise him that they have all the time they need, but paradoxically, his hands are already busy fumbling with Oswald’s zipper. When his hand reaches down the front of the other’s pants, palm playfully rubbing against his clothed erection, he is met with a whimper. Oswald’s features turn into something so sacred that Edward closes his eyes, secretly hoping that this image will stay engraved on his eyelids forever.

“You’re beautiful.”

Oswald hides his face in the curve of his neck and Edward wishes he could see what he sees. He makes the one-sided promise to mention that later. Now is not the moment to argue about how handsome Oswald is. Not when he is falling apart in his arms with each caress, each kiss, each compliment Edward gives him. Edward pushes him against the mattress, straddling him at the waist, his hand still fondling him ever so slowly. And for a while he does nothing else, allowing himself to look at his partner, basking in the knowledge that he is his first and last. Oswald moves under him, readjusting his position to find something that works better for his leg. Edward leans down, kissing the pain away.

“Does it hurt?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Good,” Edward’s mind is already sketching something in the back of his mind, “I could work on a new leg brace.”

Oswald nods, absent-mindedly, hips bucking upwards, begging for more pressure. Edward looks at his hair and the way it forms a halo around his head, a stark contrast against the white sheets. And he wants to say it again, but he keeps it for himself this time. Oswald looks celestial, a heavenly presence that warms Edward’s usually lonely heart. And he smiles against Oswald’s skin, teeth leaving a mark on his neck. His hand leaves the front of his pants and Oswald lets out a soft whine from the loss. 

Edward undresses him, layer after layer, taking all the time he needs to worship him. And every time his lips meet Oswald’s skin, he seems to get a little bit more confident. In turn, Edward lowers himself between his legs, patiently waiting for Oswald to nod at him to return the favor. He tries to remember what he had liked earlier, tongue shyly sweeping over the tip, fingers lazily stroking him. Oswald is more vocal than before and Edward smiles against his length when he moans out his name.

_So lewd._

He shushes his subconscious, focusing on his task so greedily that he almost bites him out of pain when Oswald tugs at his hair a little bit too harshly.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry, but – I’m afraid I am not going to last long if you keep doing that.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Edward asks, breathing hot air against the inside of his left thigh, genuinely willing to stop if it is what Oswald wants.

“No, I—Ed?” 

“Yes,” Edward fully looks up at Oswald, rubbing his cheek against the palm of his hand which is now resting on the side of his face.

“Come here,” Oswald motions to the spot right next to him, and Edward obeys, crawling on all fours to join him, laying down next to his lover on his side, resting a leg in between Oswald’s.

He understands now, with the way Oswald tilts his head to the side, capturing his lips in a chaste kiss, that he is not willing to experiment tonight. He wants to take his time, and Edward understands that rushing through things – when he does not even own a bottle of lube anyway – would be pure selfishness. Edward looks at Oswald through dark lashes, before he has to close his lids in order to keep his sanity. Oswald is already stroking him, cold fingers leaving him fighting for air. Edward returns it, the warmth of his palm pressing against Oswald’s erection, his thumb smearing the pre-cum against the tip. Oswald gasps, biting Edward’s lower lip, causing him to swear under his breath.

“Slow down,” Oswald begs, his voice sounding so distant to Edward.

Edward ignores it, applying even more pressure on his sensitive skin, lips stretching into a smile against Oswald’s temple. And what he says next comes from a place he does not fully want to acknowledge yet.

“What if I don’t want to?”

Oswald whimpers, visibly fighting against the urge to teach him a lesson.

“You’re such a brat.”

Edward smiles, the beginning of a laugh dying inside of his throat when Oswald’s fingers tighten against his length. And he feels it coming. A flood of tiny little sparks lighting up in his lower stomach, announcing what is to come. And when it hits him, his lover’s name becomes a prayer. His presence the only thing preventing him from losing his mind. Oswald’s lips plant soft, soothing kisses on the crown of Edward’s head, and he releases him to grab the side of his face, shifting his body to face him. Oswald’s thumb traces his partner’s lips, waiting for him to catch his breath.

“You don’t have to—”

But Edward does not want to stop touching him. Oswald is allowed a moment of peace, only for a fleeting while, before Edward’s still trembling fingers resume what they were doing before. And when they kiss, this time, it is with a passion so fierce and so unabashed that Edward wishes they would have done this earlier. Oswald comes soon after and Edward let’s go of his lips in time to hear him say his name. He finds himself enjoying it so much that a blush colors his cheeks. Oswald rides out his orgasm, hips still rolling against Edward’s palm. And when he comes down from his peak it is to find Edward sucking on his fingers, curiosity written all over his face.

_Salty._

Oswald grabs one of the sheets, cleaning them both before throwing it on the other side of the room, almost knocking down a candle with it.

“Was it so bad that you want us both to die in a fire?” Edward asks, licking his lower lip in one swift motion.

“Sorry,” Oswald says, scooting closer to him as if not being in contact with him for more than a minute would be unbearable.

Edward hums when Oswald rests his head on his chest, fingers immediately finding their way through his hair. He plays with a few strands, stifling a yawn, his entire body growing tired with each passing second. Oswald seems to enjoy the administrations, his injured leg resting in between Edward’s. And for Edward; all is well. The earth could stop spinning, the stars could fall from the sky, the very sun could rise on the wrong side of the hemisphere for all he cares. Oswald is falling asleep in his arms tonight, and when he speaks, there is not an ounce of doubt left in his heart.

“I love you.”

Oswald freezes. And Edward’s world actually stops spinning. Oswald tilts his head up, looking at him with an unreadable expression. His voice is but a whisper when he speaks.

“Come again?”

“I said,” and Edward braces himself this time, “I love you.”

He is met with a laugh, pure bliss pouring out of Oswald’s very core. And when Oswald leaves a kiss on his chest, right above his heart, Edward knows he is done for. Oswald mutters the next words, voice so low that he almost misses it.

“About time. I adore you, too, Ed."

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on twitter @cowpoke69.


End file.
